


After Hours

by Kemmasandi



Series: that AU where Ratchet gets around a lot [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Double Penetration, Multi, Sensory Deprivation, Sticky Sex, Tentacles, Threesome, Wave Sandwich With Ambulance Filling, improvised bondage, misuse of telepath mods, the AU where Ratchet gets around a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet gets himself into a rather tight squeeze with the Decepticons' terrible two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Hours

**Author's Note:**

> A few days ago [Ratchet](http://imadoctor-notasoldier.tumblr.com) sent me a note regarding a possible ambulance sandwich to be had, inspired by the science-bros conversation between Ratchet and Shockwave in _Synthesis._ By chance, I'd been thinking of something similar the night before - so this happened.
> 
> It's AU, obviously, set in a strange universe bunny of mine where after Megatron's death two out of three top Decepticon officers decided they didn't care about Earth and sued for peace with the 'Bots. Ratchet struck up a weird friendship with Shockwave, whose lab he shared, and then Soundwave muscled in on it so Ratchet became the unofficial go-between for the two sides' command parties. As mentioned in the series title, he gets around a lot as a result.
> 
> * * *

_> > we are burning wax, melting all over each other_

He doesn't quite remember how he got here.

It has something to do with high grade, he thinks, and something in his laboratory this morning that... well, if it was important he'd have made a note of it. His mind is riding high, uplifted by a combination of the engex in his tanks and the charge crackling through his lines like wildfires through dry brush. Memory can't quite catch up to it - which is okay, he's got better things to do here and now.

'Here' is the floor of his lab, far enough below ground in the Polyhexian ruins that he can feel the steady _thump-thump_ of the excavators carving silicate out of the city's energon mains. Thick datacables, still reinforced for battle, wrap around his wrists and forearms, binding them together and dragging them up over his helm. He is kneeling, his weight balanced uncomfortably on knees and ankles, his legs spread apart and lubricant dribbling down the insides of his thighs. His sensory programs are scrambled, his visual and audial centers offlined completely. There's sound around him, but he feels it more than hears it, reverberating through his struts and up into his spark. He aches from the unnatural angle in which his arms are held, but under it his neural net throbs with something that's closer to pleasure than pain.

It's a vulnerable position, war too recent in living memory to feel entirely comfortable. His spark whirls faster in agitated anticipation.

He opens his mouth in a moue of surprise as his optics online without his permission, focusing on purple plating in front and beneath him. Shockwave’s bigger than him, but not by that much - he still has to look up to meet Ratchet's feverish gaze. That single optic watches him impassively. The scientist’s field shows nothing but near-abyssal stillness – but no amount of practiced self-control can hide the heat of his systems.

Well. At least Ratchet’s not the only one.

He rocks backwards, trying to ease the burn in his ankles. His shoulders protest as they're twisted further out of alignment. The cables around his wrists ease their grip almost as soon as his processor registers the pain, just enough to soothe it back into mere discomfort. It sharpens the ache of overcharge in his array to the point where all he wants to do is throw back his helm and beg for relief.

Long, spindly fingers trace their way up the line of his neck. Ratchet's neural net barely registers the touch it's so light, but proximity records the caress in baffling clarity. He shudders, wondering if he dares lean into it.

Behind him, the lean shape of Soundwave leans forward, spidery servos sliding down his back. His optics offline abruptly, the telepath's work. In their stead his audial systems fire up just in time to hear the smooth snick he recognises as Soundwave's visor sliding back.

Soundwave doesn't speak, but uses Shockwave's deep monotone to ask a single question. "Are you adequately prepared?"

Ratchet nods shakily, wincing through useless optics as the movement jars his shoulders. Then he's plunged into silence again, his audials going down in a flash of foreign coding. It would be terrifying if the great majority of Ratchet's situational response protocols weren't stuck on helpless arousal.

Shockwave’s cannon hums against his side, damper systems idly cycling through the excess charge. His one functional hand presses, palm flat, against Ratchet’s grill, fingertips curling just slightly against the metal. Ratchet’s fans gasp, sucking in cooler air, his outer plating rattling faintly under Shockwave’s hand. He can feel it, a tingling in the anchor lines tying his armor to his protoform. His entire neural net is alight with it.

Their movements pause. Shockwave tilts his helm to the side, his antennae shifting the only movement visible in Ratchet's proximity scans.

Then he moves and the barrel of his gun is suddenly pressed up against Ratchet's open valve.

Ratchet feels himself keen, arching back against the cables holding him up. Shockwave's gun is heat and radiant charge and it vibrates minutely with each rev of its generator, the pulsation brilliant and almost painful against Ratchet's oversensitized external nodes. His hips jerk down against it, his autonomics wanting more of that pressure, his tactile centers craving it inside him where he's most sensitive. He angles his hips against it, blindly pressing down against the square-forged corners so that it intrudes through his external folds and fetches up against the tactile nodes lining his valve entrance.

He feels his throat and vocaliser work in what's probably a ragged scream. His valve array fires, charge crackling and leaping inside him. It's not quite enough to push him over the edge but it's so close, so nearly there, each pulse of plasma against him feels as thought it could be the one to push him over -

\- but somehow, none of them do.

Ratchet whines in frustrated agony. His self-control is in tatters, his frame twisting every which way as he rides each gentle push of Shockwave's cannon, his field open, dripping charge and desperate need. His array clenches and throbs, his interface protocols desperate for release. When he finally goes over the edge it's going to be incredible, but that's little consolation right now. He wants something in him and he wants it _now_ , and he's not entirely sure he cares what that something is.

He feels amusement in his higher mind, amusement that's not his. Soundwave seeds ideas in him, patiently prodding his shattered attention towards one in particular. It's a ghost image, low-quality and, he suspects, plucked simply from Soundwave's imagination rather than the library of crude acts they've gotten up to in the past. It shows him, bound with his arms behind his back, on his knees with his chest and face against the floor, presenting himself to an unknown watcher. His valve is shown in conspicuously higher quality, it glistens with fluids, external folds puffed and drawn back from his entrance in a physical marker of his own receptiveness. At any other time he'd recoil from such a blatant illustration of his own sexuality, but now?

Now his spark cycles at the mere sight, lightning pooling low in his abdomen and earthing itself in his array.

The image moves, the hidden voyeur drawing in close. Datacables the twins of those which bind his wrists extend into view and suddenly Ratchet knows what's going to happen next. The caricature of him lifts its head and arches its back, indistinct mouth open in a silent moan. The cables reach it, filaments extending, and slide around, over its aft in a bizarre caress. One wraps around its thighs just above the knee, pushing its legs apart until its valve is completely exposed from anterior cluster to rear labial folds. Lubricant drips down its inner thigh in high-definition video.

The second cable hovers at its valve for a moment, then pushes forward.

Ratchet makes a strangled cry, his mind's eye fixed on the steady penetration. The cable is thicker than any spike, and his simulacrum's entrance stretches obscenely around it. The jack tip disappears into him completely and his own valve pulses, calipers rippling around an imaginary invader.

Soundwave's presence brushes a silent question across his fractured awareness - _do you like it?_

His labored ventilations, his dripping valve answer for him.

Vibrations through the atmosphere, a conversation that he can't hear. The gun is withdrawn from his entrance and before he can moan his loss Soundwave's spindly hands push him forward, laying him across Shockwave's chassis. It's a little uncomfortable, the point of Shockwave's chestplates digging into his own, but it's inconsequential enough to be ignored.

And _oh_ , long thin fingers at his valve, tracing both major labial folds up to his anterior cluster and pressing down. A jolt of electricity rips through his neural net, pleasure so intense it's more like pain. He spasms, his vocaliser working in a sob he can't hear. Soundwave traces the visible part of his first ring of calipers, proximity tracing him as he leans forward, looming over Ratchet.

Fingers slip into him at long last, and he forgets the last of his restraint. Soundwave's digits are long, reaching deeper into him than either he or Shockwave can do. He gets straight to the point, seeking out tactile nodes and prodding them to life, working open Ratchet's internal calipers with a singleminded intent.

Shockwave's hand cups his aft, long fingers playing in the seam between thigh and hip. His gun arm digs into Ratchet's grill, revving higher and higher as it burns off the scientist's excess energy. Between them, Ratchet has no chance.

The fingers withdraw from him almost completely, the tips spreading his external folds as the cold head of Soundwave's free cable settles into position at his entrance. The difference in temperate makes him shudder helplessly, the sensation only intensifying as the fibre-optic adjustor tendrils extend, slipping into him ahead of the cable itself.

It moves, and preparation or not, his calipers struggle to adjust. The pressure alone makes him whimper as it impales him, so slowly and carefully it comes as a shock when they give way and the connector slides fully into him.

Soundwave pauses to give him time to adjust, and somewhere deep in his mind Ratchet's grateful for that. His internal calipers are stretched so flat they can't adjust, and while their spasmodic fluttering is incredibly good it's a clear sign that rushing his body is not a good idea.

Shockwave tilts his helm up to Soundwave's bared face, and someone says something; Ratchet can't tell who. The telepath answers, and a pleased warmth spreads through the touch of his mind.

Then the cable inside him _moves_ , pushing deeper still. He arches into the pressure, base coding driving him to take it in all the way, clenching and coming open around it. Soundwave retracts it until the ribbed connector head threatens to pop free of him, then thrusts back into him, harder and faster. It happens again, harder still, driving into him, taking him and making him scream with frustrated charge and the sheer brilliant pressure of it.

He moves into each earth-shattering thrust as best he can, riding the movement with little rolls of his hips, rising and falling on his knees. The grinding must be having an effect on Shockwave because soon the scientist's panel retracts and he pressurises his spike. It rubs against Ratchet's inner thigh, collecting lubricant as they move.

Then the rhythm breaks – Soundwave’s cable pulls free of his valve with a wet shlep. It presses teasingly against his entrance for a few moments before it is pulled away entirely. Ratchet lays there and gasps against Shockwave’s chest for a moment before three hands help him upright again, the cable around his wrists loosening further. He moans and shudders, one of Soundwave’s spindly servos at his valve once more. The sensation of a spike at his entrance makes him moan and shudder in the darkness, and as he’s lowered onto it, Soundwave’s hands spread his folds around the invading length. The simple action helps trigger something deep inside him and he spirals up into a blissed plateau. He hangs over the precipice of overload for a long moment, time enough for the slim press of a second spike to line up at his entrance. Soundwave's lithe form rests against his back and Ratchet feels it with a frenzied clarity, the telepath's hands cupping the curve of his hips before he pushes in alongside Shockwave.

Lightning flashes, a forging hammer against his overworked circuitry, and Ratchet falls over the edge. The surge knocks his higher processors completely offline, reducing him to a thoughtless mass of sensation and need. His frame arches back against Soundwave, engine screaming and vents forced open as wide as they'll go. He feels them both moving inside him, the scrape of slick wet metal and the burning stretch as they force him open, the crackling flow of their charge into him is too much to bear and he feels his vocaliser crack on a binary scream, his neural net tingling and shuddering, pleasure from his fingertips to the crown of his helm and down to his pedes.

Transfluid floods into him, hot and fulfilling. He's got no idea which of them it is, or both, maybe - Soundwave's thrusts turn jerky and erratic while Shockwave stills entirely, bowing up against Ratchet and holding him tight with both arms. His entire pelvic array becomes a ball of lightning, his consciousness withdrawing as his body gradually comes down from that ecstatic height, too exhausted to even fall into recharge.

The foreign hold over his optics and audial centers breaks, and they flicker online automatically. He blinks down at Shockwave's optic, dulled with exertion.

Neither of them say anything. The moment doesn't require it.

His last thought as he begins shutdown protocols is blurred with sleep. It goes something along the lines of _How in Unicron's name am I going to explain this to Optimus?_


End file.
